


A Nap

by schrodanger



Series: The Three of Swords - Prompts and Other Stories [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4792910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schrodanger/pseuds/schrodanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romance prompt #5 - A nap. Declan Lavellan and Solas. Takes place at Caer Bronach. SFW, rated T for elves with potty mouths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Nap

“This place is murder on my leg,” Declan groaned. The weary apostate clung tightly to his staff. “This place is murder in general.”

Inquisitor Lavellan – or “sister,” as he so happened to call her – snorted a laugh but signaled to the traveling party to slow their pace. “You think this is bad?” Seldras laughed over her shoulder. “You should see the Storm Coast. Rocky hills and constant rain and sea spray. At least the sun isn’t too shy here.”

“That’s not saying much,” grumbled Declan. “Crestwood. Why not Damp Backward Shitwood?” Skyhold, in the snow-capped and biting cold Frostback Mountains, wasn’t exactly ideal for his health either, but at least the castle had soft beds, hot meals, and cozy fireplaces. It certainly wasn’t as harsh on his crippled leg and aching skull. 

According to Seldras, the area had been  _much_ more of a danger when the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall were passing through. Red Templars and Venatori everywhere, she said. Still, the fact that skirmishes with petty bandits were so difficult for him was a great source of embarrassment for him. Seldras had teasingly offered him “desk work” in the library with Dorian, but he indignantly refused. His skills as a hedge mage were much more useful on the front lines.

“We’re almost at Caer Bronach,” called Seldras. “Hang in there, old man.”

“Oh for….you’re only a year younger than me! And what about this wyvern problem the hermit lady mentioned?”

“We’ll get to that later. First we need to get in a quick rest and restock our sup-”  

“Friggin’  _starving_ ,” interrupted Sera. The rogue leaned on Seldras in a fake faint. “Hope the campfire special ain’t ham again. Tastes like wet horse. I’d like roasted bird, bottle a’ booze, five apple pies….”

Declan’s stomach growled at the mention of food. Even so, his main concern was sleep. It wouldn’t do much for the pain, but at least he’d regain a modicum of energy for dealing with this alleged wyvern problem east of Crestwood.

The uphill hike to the gates of Caer Bronach caused him to stumble. Pain splintered from his shin and up his leg, eliciting a loud, gasped curse in between strained breaths. Seldras didn’t hear him over Sera’s chatter, but the moment the pain showed on his face, a hand was on his back, supporting him as he limped. Declan looked up and gave Solas a small, thankful smile. Solas, however, had his attention turned to the keep gates. “We are almost there,” he reassured.

As they arrived, Inquisition soldiers dragged open the recently constructed gates; apparently Seldras and company had simply broken through the previous ones when chasing bandits from the keep.

Declan broke away from the group and quickened his pace in spite of his protesting leg.

“Don’t you want anything to eat?” Seldras called, brow furrowed in concern. He shook his head and hobbled over to the tents.

“No. Just sleep, thanks.” He was too exhausted to stick around when she began to lecture him on his poor eating habits.

Alone in the tent, he sat down and gingerly hugged his crooked leg to his chest. His usual stubborn and solid demeanor melted away into a weak, fatigued slouch. He grimaced as he pulled off his boots. “ _Fenedhis_ ,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He roughly jerked the eye patch from his face, not caring what his face looked like without it. The straps digging into his flesh were only worsening his headache. His stomach protested when he collapsed onto his bedroll with no intention of feeding himself. He didn’t bother undressing or splashing some water on his grime-coated face. Rest was all that mattered – a brief respite from the exhaustion from simply existing.

Even as the smell of baked, well-seasoned fish came wafting over, he did not move. He blinked sluggishly at the shadows dancing on the canvas. He pulled his blankets over himself with a grunt and shivered.

Before he could slip into an uneasy slumber, a soft voice prompted him awake. “Declan?”

Had it been anyone else, Declan might have given them the evil eye, but it was Solas, kneeling next to him in a fairly clean change of robes. He held a steaming cup of acrid-smelling liquid in his hands.

“Wassat?” Declan slurred. He peered suspiciously at the cup.

“Your sister worries for you, lethallin.”

“And water is wet. Seriously, if you ever find out how to get her to stop that motherly worrying, I would be in your debt. Her life isn’t sunshine, yet here she is, wrangling up angry shems and flipping off the Chantry.”

Solas quickly pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and disguised a snort as a small cough. He gestured to the cup and set it down on the ground. “She insisted that I give you this for the pain.” Solas leaned on his elbow and watched Declan expectantly.

Declan reluctantly picked it up, sniffed it, and recoiled as if he’d been punched in the nose. “Creators! What is this? Nug piss and burnt grass?”

“A tea of spindleweed and embrium, if I am not mistaken.”

He gave the cup a poisonous glare.

Solas began to make his bedroll. “I am not fond of tea myself,” commented Solas, “but the drought should alleviate your aches and aid you in a more restful sleep.”

Declan procrastinated drinking the mess, further undressing for bed while he was upright, taking off his scarf, his overcoat, and the bracer on his leg.

By the time he got to the tea, Solas was leaning back on his bedroll, nose buried in a copy of Speaking To The Other: A Translation by Lady Gihn. The tea had turned cold. He picked up the cup and grimaced before pinching his nose and forcing it down in several gulps.

“Fen'harel ver ma!” he spat, choking back the urge to gag.

Solas peered over the edge of his book with an arched eyebrow. “I share the sentiment. About the tea, at least.”

Declan greedily drank the last of the water in his waterskin in an attempt to rid his tongue of the putrid taste. He uttered several more strings of elvhen curses that would have made his mother weep before burying himself in his blanket pile.

He heard Solas moving around in his bedroll and the light snap of a book being shut. He flinched instinctively when Solas’s hand touched his face. Solas pulled his hand away tentatively, but Declan grasped it and gave it a soft squeeze.  Solas’s hands covered his, warmth spreading from his fingertips and into Declan’s clammy skin.

True to Seldras’s words, the elixir (along with Solas’s subtle healing magic) made it easy for Declan to drift off.

What seemed like moments later, he found himself awake, leaning against a wall near the keep’s stables.

Muddled visions of soldiers wearing beaten century-old Fereldan armor swam around him. Medics and priests rushed around tending to the wounded, and footmen sat together in huddled circles around dying campfires, sipping thin soup from wooden bowls and sharpening worn blades. Nearby, restless mabari warhounds bayed and howled.

He was in the Fade, but what kind of vision was this?

As if to answer him, he felt a familiar presence at his side emanating an aura of warmth. It was Solas, clad in his favorite woolen vest and coat, gloved hands wrapped tightly around a simple staff.

“It is not as clear as I had hoped, but you were –  _are_ – quite exhausted.”

Declan let out a quiet laugh, but in the Fade, the sound echoed as if he had shouted. The spectral soldiers around them did not seem to notice. “You can blame my sister for the mug of leaf juice knocking me on my ass. And those bandits. That was a bit of a fight.”

Solas offered him a small grin.

Declan crossed his arms, still favoring his right leg. Even in the Fade, he could feel the distant ache of his bones, an unwelcome reminder of the waking world.

“So this is Caer Bronach,” said Declan. “When?”

Solas glanced at the worn masses of Fereldan soldiers. His eyes rested on a proud, ghostly figure pacing among them, addressing them with words that Declan could not hear.

Solas broke the unnatural stillness. “Roughly a hundred and twenty years ago, if my memory serves. Ferelden is at war with Orlais, and this garrison stands in between the feuding armies.” He gestured to the figure speaking to soldiers. Upon closer inspection, Declan saw that he was clad in worn but elaborate armor decorated with trademark Fereldan mabari motifs and sparse furs.

“That man will become Crestwood’s namesake,” continued Solas. “When the invading armies come, he will challenge their proud chevaliers, and ten of them will fall before Crestwood himself passes through the Fade where we now stand. The Orlesians were so impressed by Crestwood’s valor that they spared the native villagers.”

Declan scowled and stared at his boots, avoiding the lifeless gaze of a dead soldier lying outside a nearby medical tent. He rubbed his one good eye and peered up at the starless void of the Fade.

“And whose dream is this? Yours?”

“It is theirs. Their memories, their emotions. I coaxed your consciousness here, if that is what you are asking.”

“Why? This is grim and depressing.”

“Little of the world is not.”

“Solas, please. I don’t want a history lesson right now. I just want to rest.”

Solas briefly pursed his lips in annoyance, but his features softened when he saw that Declan was staring wide-eyed at the corpses.

“You are right. I am sorry.” He took Declan’s hand and gave it a light tug. “Come. I…wanted to show you something. Not this. Something…closer to you, or rather, your spirit.”

Declan shrugged and followed Solas through the tight spaces of the crowded keep. When Declan stumbled on a loose cobblestone, still weak even in the Fade, Solas quickly caught him and offered him his staff. Declan uttered a humble thank you. Solas pressed a gentle hand against the small of his back and guided him along.

They turned a corner and the ethereal baying of the warhounds became more defined.

He was greeted with the sight of armored and painted mabari. The creatures were panting and yipping eagerly, oblivious to the the dismal atmosphere of the keep. They licked the hands of the houndsmaster eagerly as he fed them small strips of dried meat with a weary smile.

Declan’s own lips curved into his characteristic lop-sided grin, the first pleased expression he hadn’t forced all day. He peered down at the slobbering dogs with fond, bright eyes. “The Inquisition could use a few mabari.”

“Perhaps.”

Solas moved his arm to hold Declan at the waist. The gesture was no longer one of physical aid, but of light affection.

To Declan’s surprise, one of the hounds noticed him, unlike any of the other memories in this part of the Fade. Its image swam and blurred. The beast moved through the walls of the kennel as if they weren’t there and stopped at Declan’s feet. It tilted its head expectantly. Declan blinked down at it in shock.

“A….?”

“A spirit,” Solas explained. “Most likely the wandering soul of a hound who lost its master in the war.”

Declan felt his eye grow warm and he wondered if he was weeping in his sleep. He hesitated before speaking again, and his words came out slow, his posture guarded.

“A….a mabari saved me once. When I was little, you know. It was after the Dalish expelled me from the clan. I was freezing and I couldn’t make enough magic to protect myself from predators. But she found me, and she wasn’t afraid. She stayed with me – what, it must have been a week? And then Rell found me. She stayed with us after that, for a very long time.”

Solas pulled Declan closer to him in a soothing gesture. The spirit wagged its tail and chuffed.

“May I pet her – ah…it? It isn’t trying to possess me, is it?”

“No,” chuckled Solas. The question might have been absurd to the dreamer mage, but he  didn’t seem to mind if it was. “It is entirely benevolent. It is pleased to share the company of an equally noble creature.”

“…Flatterer.”

Declan snorted when Solas let out an exasperated sigh. “That is….” Solas cleared his throat, prompting Declan to break into a fit of laughter. The spirit let out a pleased bark and licked his hand. Declan scratched it behind its ears. Where there should have been fur, there was the electric tinge of the Fade’s energies, mingling with his own. The dog lost interest after awhile and padded back over to its kin, fading into nothingness.

When Declan stood, he reached for Solas’s hand and gave him a small nod – a silent, touched “thank you.” Solas averted his eyes awkwardly for a moment before meeting Declan’s admiring gaze. A small smile played on his lips. 

Declan pressed his body against Solas’s, dropping the staff that he no longer needed for support. Solas tilted Declan’s chin upward with a finger. His lips parted as if to speak and -

“OY! ARSE BANDITS!!”

Declan jolted upright and blinked rapidly at the loud voice of Sera coming from the front of the tent. Solas was likewise wakened by Declan, as Solas’s arms had wrapped around his waist at some point during their nap.

“Bandits? Here?” Declan rasped.

Sera burst into laughter. “Yeah, the two of you, loons! All snuggled up tight in yer….tights! PFFFT!”

Declan pulled his blankets over his head, blushing bright red. “Mythal’s saggy tits, could you stop the yelling? We’ll be up in a few minutes, shit.”

“No time for quickies, come on! Us! Fighting wyverns! Now!”

“We weren’t going to….we don’t even….” Declan let out a disgruntled sigh. “Let me get dressed..”

“No quickies.”

Solas narrowed his eyes at her and vehemently hissed “ _dahn'direlan_ ” under his breath.

Sera blew a raspberry in response and cackled. “The shite does that mean?”

“It means…..” Solas pressed his palm against his forehead and made a shooing motion with his head. “Go. Please.”

“No quickies,” she chimed for the third time in the past minute.

“ _Fenedhis lasa._ ”

“PBBBBT!”

**Author's Note:**

> Dahn’direlan = elvhen for an idiot, literally “someone who punches bees” (see Project Elvhen)   
> Fenedhis lasa = Canon insult spoken by Solas. Fan-speculated to mean “suck on a wolf’s dick.” Likewise, fenedhis probably means “wolf dick.” (see Project Elvhen)   
> The story of Crestwood = Taken from a canon codex on Caer Bronach in Dragon Age: Inquisition   
> Rell = Declan’s adoptive father.  
> Not really relevant trivia: Declan’s mabari’s name was Masi. She died of old age.


End file.
